


Awaken Their Ashes Unto Pain

by CandyQueenAO3, OldBeginningNewEnding



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley are ghosts, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Established Relationship, F/F, Height Differences, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Murder, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Paranormal Investigators Anathema and Newt, Period-Typical Homophobia?, Rating May Change, Romanticide, Secret Relationship, and they may help with the pining issue, and they pine for one another, are also a thing, i don't know that bitch, if you can call being stuck a street away long-distance, that's it that's the fic, the whole shebang
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:34:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26366530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CandyQueenAO3/pseuds/CandyQueenAO3, https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldBeginningNewEnding/pseuds/OldBeginningNewEnding
Summary: “I want to make Romeo jealous! I want the dead lovers of the world to hear our laughter, and grow sad. I want a breath of our passion to stir their dust into consciousness, to wake their ashes into pain.”- Oscar WildeAzira is the spectre that resides in old Fell Manor whereas Crowley is the spirit has been haunting the adjacent cemetery. Given their soul-bound states to their respective spaces, it's a tragical, not-so-long distance relationship for the two.At the very least, on moonlit nights Azira can gaze out the balcony and catch a glimpse of his beloved Crowley from across the iron gates, pacing back and forth, eternally seeking the answer to sever the shackles and reach his beloved.Enter Anathema and Newt, a paranormal investigative duo who may be the key to aiding these soul-crossed lovers.Azira sighed, watching the mousy young man light his sleeve on fire while preparing the séance. "Then again, perhaps not."
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 75
Kudos: 91





	1. Dearly Departed

**Author's Note:**

> OBNE here: Proud to present this collaboration with the lovely and ever-talented CandyQueenAO3 as spooky season is just around the corner! Hope you enjoy this little ghost story~

When the leaves bleed red and burn with fiery shades, when the winds give chase and bite with autumnal chill, and when the nights stretch their shadows deep into the hours— _that_ was when the tiny township of Eden’s End staggered to life with lore and legend. It was on these solemn, haunting nights, with wispy clouds smothering the moon’s pale light, that the spirits roused from their eternal slumber.

It was also said that on moonless nights, unrest plagued the graves that resided by Fell Manor: a ghastly chorus of ghouls shrieking and howling with the gales of looming storms, a dissonance of demons cackling from the shadows, the eerie wind-whispers floating through the midnight air—

However, if one soul braved such nights, they might find a curious sight indeed: of a lonely spirit, restlessly, _hopelessly_ , rounding along the borders of mortality’s final bed—doomed to silent eternity.

(To anyone else, perhaps this was his punishment. Perhaps this was his damnation: to toil away at all hours, inspecting the rusted, wrought-iron gates, combing through the crumbling stone walls and the serpentine vines that scrawled through their cracks—all to assess the boundaries of his keep. Tirelessly, he searched for the slightest give _,_ the smallest breaks in the unyielding force that confined him within the consecrated grounds, the _tiniest_ indication that he’d be free to so much as travel an _inch_ of soil beyond _Angel’s Garden Cemetery._

But the shackles were set in place. And all Crowley could do was pace the yard like a hound, collared and _trapped_.

Crowley can’t say he minded it; can’t say that it particularly bothered him. After so long—

Nothing did anymore.)

And if one brave soul traveled to the eastern gate of the cemetery, creeping close to the huddle of unmarked graves— _and listened—_ one may hear the spirits whisper amongst themselves at the pitiful, predictable sight.

***~*~*~*~***

“There he goes again.” Hastur sighed with a shake of his head. “The poor, sodding bastard.”

Ligur gave a haphazard glance in Crowley’s direction. “Think he’ll ever give up?” This was hardly the first time they've had this conversation. 

It likely wouldn't be the last. _“Hah._ ” Hastur gruffed out a laugh as he settled upon the damp earth beside him. “Not in this afterlife.”

Ligur considered this for a moment before agreeing with a crooked grin upon his crooked mouth. “With a guy like _that_ waiting on him though? Can’t say I blame ‘im.”

The two shared a snicker; half-cruel and half-hearted. There was little entertainment to be found throughout the afterlife; in a way, they were almost grateful for the romantic drama—or was it a tragedy?— that unfolded before them nearly every night.

Even if things always did end the same. 

“Who’s waiting on him?”

The two specters turned their gazes as a new face cropped up from an adjacent grave. _Eric_ , Hastur recognized, a newly deceased. The lad’s funeral was held just a few nights ago.

Grumbling, Hastur gestured to him with a tilt of his head. Eric stalked over to the pair and followed his signal towards the direction of Fell Manor. His line of sight lead him to a lone balcony facing the graveyard from across the street. The aging house was dilapidated and in dire disrepair, its windows cracked and the stone of its foundation crumbling from age alongside the rest of the decaying estate. It stood in the muted dark, silent as any other grave.

“Wait for it,” Hastur said simply.

And so Eric did. 

The new soul began to shift after a few moments of silence, dubious of the two phantoms before him until the clouds finally cleared from the skies. Moonbeams fell upon the land in a quiet hush and the shadows scarpered away to their little crevices; a few more souls lazily stirred from their tombs to the generous glow. In that moment, the graveyard was alit and alive under the moon’s ethereal touch.

Eric’s eyes darted back to the balcony and Hastur wheezed out a laugh as Eric’s jaw fell open.

A lone, pale apparition appeared there by the broken glass doors, his figure soft and beautiful under the moonlight. Cloudpuff curls crowned a lovely cherubic face, his plump, pampered form fitted in a fine, rich suit befit nobility. He looked down to a spot at the eastern gates where Crowley now occupied, his expression quiet and lovelorn.

_“Wow,”_ Eric gasped.

“Don’t let Crowley catch you oglin’ his lover-boy,” Hastur chided with a sharp smile. “He won’t take kindly to that.”

Eric watched, entranced at the bittersweet bliss on the man’s face as Crowley wildly gestured from the street below. He watched curiously as the man signaled back to him. It took but a moment for the realization to dawn on Eric: “Is he just…trapped there? In that house?”

“Yeah.” Ligur shrugged, setting his back comfortably against his headstone. “Has been since the beginning.” He gave a callous laugh. “Or _end,_ I should say.”

“Crowley’s not givin’ up though.” Hastur said, though Eric was quite sure he didn’t mean that in a kindly manner.

“Don’t know if he's a romantic or just a fool,” Ligur drawled as he lounged from his seat.

Hastur scoffed. “Same thing.”

“Least he’s got somethin’ to look forward to in this miserable purgatory,” Ligur pointed out as Hastur’s face scrunched to a sneer.

And…perhaps Eric agreed with him. The suffocating thought of _eternity_ weighed on his shoulders all at once as he gazed up at the beautiful man, forever entombed in an empty house. He thought of the cruel twist of fate that must have brought him there, kept him there—of the monotony that laid within every single moment of every single day for an endless infinity...

It was near _unbearable_ —

(And Eric had only been dead for a few days.)

“Yeah?” Hastur raised a brow, making an exaggerated, sweeping gesture over to where Crowley stood, perched on that same spot every night, for as long as any of them had been there. “And look what _that’s_ driven him to.”

The three looked back at the lone spirit, translucent outline framed by a broken archway and rubble as he made on with wordless conversation to a ghost from a lifetime ago; the same lone spirit who spent his eternity dutifully pacing the perimeter of their shared prison—an ceaseless circle born out of madness, out of devotion—

Maybe both.

Ligur made a face, his tone bitter and resigned. “You’d think he’d have given up, what with time curin’ all wounds n’ all. Guess it can’t cure this one.”

***~*~*~*~***

Azira fretted and dithered about in his room. He’d been waiting all day for this and a few centuries certainly didn’t quell the (unnecessary) need to preen himself before commencing his near-nightly meeting with Crowley. Perhaps it was...a bit silly; attempting to tame his curls by the vanity was more out of habit than anything. It gave him structure and routine and—

Well it’s not like the broken mirrors had anything to really contribute anyways.

(Never mind the whole… _transparency_ issue.)

Besides it wasn’t _wrong_ to want to look his best in front of his darling, was it? The glinting embers of glee that lit up within him at the thought of seeing Crowley tonight was suddenly doused, however, as he took a glance up to the skies. Azira peeked his head from the windows and sighed at the sight of heavy clouds overhead.

Unfortunately, it would seem that this night would be cut short.

He frowned and prayed it wasn’t rain.

It was…dismaying to think, sometimes, how things change. Once, long ago, he adored the rain and used to love it for all the memories they held _;_ of the warmth of a brew of hot tea, the coziness of settling in with his books for the evening, and the glow of a crackling fire by the mantle as he enjoyed a good read—

_—of the feel of spring on his skin, the mud on his clothes, and the water in his shoes as he and Crowley dashed for shelter; of the heat of Crowley’s body against his own as he shivered in his strong embrace; of the sweet, breathless kisses shared beneath the bandstand as the pitter-patter of rain drummed on the roof above them, a song of summer playing in nature’s rhythm—_

But now they only brought him cold, lonely, autumn nights with no sight of his lover to balm the wounds of his aching soul.

(Azira can’t say he truly minded; can’t say that it was particularly excruciating. After so long—

Everything was.)

Having nothing to do but walk the halls of Fell Manor for this long stretch of eternity had given him little hope of finding any route of escape. He found only unhappy memories there as he flitted through the walls, his astral form sweeping against the rotting floorboards and moth-eaten rugs. Every day, from top-to-bottom, he scoured and scavenged the carcass of his family home in hopeless hopes of finding anything to sever the bonds that tied him to these _damned_ grounds, to find what he was _missing_ all this time—

To find the very thing that could bring him back to Crowley.

(No, he never found anything.

Yet he continued to do so. More out of habit than anything. It gave him structure and routine and…

Something to hold on to.)

Azira leaned against the balcony, the moonlight giving him form—if only for a little while— as he combed through the adjacent grave-gardens. “Oh Crowley…” he sighed, a smile tugging at his lips at the sight of his beloved from below. “There you are, darling.”

Azira gave a little wave over to Crowley’s tall, lithe form. It was met with a broad smile on Crowley’s handsome face and a kiss blown in his direction. Azira felt his heart give an aching tug; though it long-stopped beating, the mere sight of Crowley never failed to make the cold, heavy thing sputter to life in his chest; never failed to make his heart swim with joy at every meeting and drown in despair at every parting. It was his poison; it was his bliss.

Moments with Crowley were the only things that made eternity bearable.

_How are you?_ Crowley seemed to say with his hands and haphazard gestures—a language only lovers could understand through centuries of separation.

Azira signed back, slowly, delicately; they didn’t have much time tonight, but in the end, time was really all they had. “The same, as always…” And Azira could never have enough of it with Crowley. "And yourself?" he signed back. 

Crowley gave a half-shrug and shook his head. Azira took that to mean, _Nothing new_ and _I haven't found anything yet._ Even then, his love looked undeterred. He always did. He was the stronger of the two and his unwavering resolution lent Azira the will to persevere himself. Crowley’s next signs likely meant something along the lines of _What about on your end?_

Azira gave a shake of his head in return, hoping that it would obscure the wobble in his smile, the sorrow in his eyes. “Afraid not, dearest,” he murmured as he let the defeated slump of his shoulder speak volumes more than the movements of his hands. It was the same. _Always_ the same.

For the past 200 years it would seem.

Azira watched with familiar melancholy gnawing at his core as Crowley nodded, understanding and ever-so-hopeful. He took the signs Crowley gestured to him to mean _It’s okay_ or _Don’t cry_ or maybe even _We’ll find a way._

Yet that was the exact problem with eternity, Azira mused. That when all was said and done, when life closed its petals and snuffed out the light—was there anything left for those that remained behind? Eternity _—forever_ —was just that: unchanging and endless. The world between them, outside of them, expanded and evolved as time marched forward and it all became so strange and unfamiliar.

But as for Azira and Crowley—they were _damned_ to stagnation.

Yet that didn’t stop the hoping, didn’t stop the _hurting._ It didn’t stop Crowley from making his rounds about the borders of the cemetery and it didn’t stop Azira from overturning the entire manor on a daily basis, and perhaps that was the most frightening thought of all:

That this _hope_ was a curse in of itself.

(Perhaps, in some bitter, cruel way—this was what it meant to be as an eternal being in the afterlife: an empty essence without room for anything more as their shells withered and crumbled in the earth below.

Azira typically kept these thoughts to himself. There was no need to burden Crowley with them. Not when these thorn-prick thoughts changed nothing in the end.)

He signed in trembling reply, _I know,_ but the soft sigh that escaped Azira’s lips formed the quiet, forlorn words of _“I miss you…”_

But if it were a curse—then so be it.

If he had to stand there on that balcony until the day the last stone beneath him crumbled—then so be it. If he had nothing in his endless years left but wayward glimpses of his love, nothing but half-guessed gestures and half-right signs—then so be it. Azira would rather cling on to this empty hope, to this false promise, to this sightless dream of _being with_ _Crowley_ than nothing at all.

He would rather an eternity of chasing the impossible than surrender to the dark.

The winds picked up and the air grew heavy as Azira sighed. He’d been right: there wouldn’t be much moonlight this evening. Not with the autumn rains billowing across the countryside. The clouds sailed on as the pair readied their farewells for the night, their eyes fixed on one another as shadows descended upon the balcony.

Crowley put his hands to his heart as Azira did much the same. Crowley lifted his palm in silent offering, in wordless prayer, to him. In turn and in reverence, Azira took his palm and from his chest and gave it a kiss, returning Crowley’s gesture.

They took them to mean _I love you._

***~*~*~*~***

On a dark, winding road by the outskirts of Eden’s End, a tiny blue car zipped along past the sprawling fields, barely going five above the designated speed limit. There within the modest vehicle emblazoned with _Paranormal Investigation PD_ on a cheap, peeling, sticker logo on the side, sat two such professionals of said profession.

“Professionals” in the sense that they had argued about the name, but ultimately decided that Paranormal Investigation _DP_ would have sent the wrong message.

Newton Pulsifer, second-in-command (to which the title itself did not mean much) and equipment manager, took up the helm of the driver’s seat. He squinted through the dimming beams of his headlights as the roads grew uneven from disrepair. “So, our next locale would be…"

“Fell Manor,” Anathema Device, self-designated leader and researcher for PI-PD, replied as she flipped through the case file she had organized for this very assignment. Though she typically kept the façade of professionalism, her open anticipation near infectious.

Newt internally braced himself for the potential lawsuits and pending breaches of trespassing regulations.

Such events were wont to follow with the sheer energy Anathema exuded in her voice: “This one’s got _quite_ the history to it—”

“Don’t they all?” Newt murmured half-heartedly.

“Love triangles, murder, and a romanticide all in one!” Newt bit back a smile. It was hard to stay pessimistic with Anathema’s inherent delight at all things macabre. It was why they worked so well together, after all. “Locals report heaps of activity—”

Newt sighed, fondness seeping into his voice. “Again, don’t they all?”

“ _And_ —” Anathema continued, thoroughly ignoring him, “It’s right next to an old graveyard with its own reported hauntings.”

_Huh._ Newt raised a brow. “Hang on, they built a graveyard right next to it?”

Anathema swiped through the clutter of articles she collected on her phone before settling on the map of the territory. “The cemetery is a little bit across the way—it was originally a plot of land that no one in the Fell family wanted. In the end, they sold it to the town.”

Newt shuffled uncomfortably at that bit of information. Trespassing private property—although abandoned—was one thing.

But infiltrating a public _cemetery? After_ hours?

Newt didn’t want to whine, but he wasn’t looking forward to contacting their lawyers again. Not so soon after _The Chattering Order of St. Beryl’s Convent_ episode. “A piece of land that they didn’t want? If that was the case, then why did they build their manor so close to it?”

Anathema hummed thoughtfully. “The history’s a bit muddy, but it would seem that the Fells once had an extensive estate that included where the graveyard now sits. The land was sold centuries ago, but I haven’t been able to pin down an exact date—only the year of the cemetery’s finished construction.” Newt wasn’t fooled by that mild humming for a second; Anathema’s got a mystery on her hands and her claws were itching to unearth it. “Something _must_ have happened to incite the sale.”

“Maybe the Fells needed the money?” Newt tried, an uneasiness settling into his bones. For once, he really wished there wouldn’t be some gruesome history attached to their haunts.

Then again, that would be a bit counterproductive given their livelihoods.

Anathema shook her head. “I doubt it. The Fells were _atrociously_ wealthy—at the time.” She leafed through the files in contemplation. It _was_ rather bizarre...and that was what drew her to this locale in the first place. Perhaps they could gather a bit more information from records at the town’s public library...

Anathema paused at a photo taken of the abandoned home. The wilds had overrun it with scrawling weeds and the state of disrepair that befell the estate gave vague indication as to how long it sat abandoned. Graffiti littered the cracked and crumbling brick and the entrance alongside several first-story windows were boarded with plywood to prevent vandals and vagabonds from entering the premises. It was a sorry sight indeed for such a massive home with so much history. 

Her eyes scanned another photo of a lone balcony, taken from the graveyard grounds on the other side of the road. It was blurry, but she could trace the outlines of a broken window in the grainy page, and if she stared at it long enough, she could _almost_ fool herself into seeing the faintest silhouette of—

“An?”

Startled, she slipped the photo back into the folder, a strange sort of sorrow and isolation settling deep into the marrow of her bones. Anathema cleared her throat, dispelling the sudden…sensation overcoming her. “The manor’s been sitting abandoned for two centuries, so I doubt the graveyard’s proximity is bothering anyone now.”

Newt bit the inside of his cheek. “What about the ghosts inside?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Anathema scoffed. “What kind of ghost would be bothered by a graveyard?”

“What if the other ghouls made for noisy neighbors?” Newt quipped.

_“Stop_ ,” she chided. “We’re professionals, remember? We have to be respectful to the dearly departed.”

“Noise complaints _are_ a serious matter!”

Newt didn’t need to turn to know Anathema was rolling her eyes at him, the beginnings of a glare burning right onto his skin. “Newt, somehow I think our poor, _tortured_ souls have more on their minds than their next-door neighbors.” Despite this, he could hear the makings of a smile in her voice.

He only shrugged, bracing himself for adventure at best, jailtime at worst, as shadows shrouded the moon on this eerie night. "You never know...”

A flash of light erupted from the skies and the pitter-patter of rain began to fall on the roof above them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Crowley can talk, but it’s not very romantic shouting their business for all the graveyard to hear. (It makes Hastur and Ligur _that_ much more unbearable). He’d much rather coin together an entire sign language for the both of them instead c;
> 
> Thank you for reading~ 
> 
> come haunt us over at:  
> candyqueenblog.tumblr.com  
> new-endings.tumblr.com


	2. The Haunting Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anathema and Newt arrive at Fell Manor and begin their work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I snuck an OC from a previous fic in here. Die mad about it lol

_ It was raining the day Azira reunited with Crowley. _

_ He sat in an overstuffed chair in the parlor, trying to read a book one-handed while his personal physician, a kind if eccentric man named Raphael, listened to his heart through a stethoscope. Outside, the rain poured down in a near biblical deluge, the sound of it against the manor’s massive bay windows drowning out nearly everything else. _

_ Everything, that is, apart from the dainty tingling of the bell above the front door, pulled by a potential visitor on the other side. _

_ Azira heaved a weary sigh and pushed himself to stand. “God help me, if that’s Lord Arch again…” he seethed, crossing to the room to the door. “I’ll… I’ll do something quite improper. Indecorous even!” _

_ Raphael chased after him. “Lord Fell, sir, wait! Your condition! The chill could-” _

_ Azira tutted good-naturedly. “Oh, stop fussing. Opening a door for a moment isn’t likely to result in my death,” he said, a flicker of fondness in his eyes for his old friend. He could hardly blame Raphael for worrying, though, as the doctor had been tending to him since Azira was a small child. _

_ With that, Azira pulled open the manor doors to greet his visitor. _

_ It wasn’t Lord Arch, that was for certain. _

_ “Crowley?” _

_ Azira hardly dared to breathe. _

_ Anthony Crowley, his oldest and dearest friend from childhood, stood on the stoop of his manor with his cap in his hands and completely drenched by the rainfall. Azira’s first thought upon seeing the man he’d lost contact with 10 years ago was: tall! _

_ Crowley had always been shorter than him in their boyhood, but now practically towered over Azira to the point where the smaller man’s head only barely reached the taller’s shoulders. Crowley’s redwood hair, once long enough to flow past his collar, was now cut short in a messy riot that clung to his forehead from the pounding drive of the rain. From his amber eyes shone forth a cautious, but hopeful, light. _

_ Neither of them spoke for what felt like a small eternity. _

_ It was Crowley who broke the silence first. _

_ “H-hey, ang- Lord Fell. I’d heard that Fell Manor was looking for a gardener and-” _

_ Crowley’s voice, so much deeper and coarser than Azira remembered but still so much the same, snapped the blond out of his stun. _

_ “Good Heavens, Crowley, you’re soaked! Come inside right this instant before you catch your death!” he scolded, slipping his hand into Crowley’s and tugging him incessantly through the door and into the parlor. _

_ “But-” _

_ “No ‘buts’!” _

_ Azira practically dragged Crowley in front of the parlor’s fireplace, ordering him to stay put while he fetched some linens to dry off with. Raphael, who’d been helping himself to a snifter of brandy from the liquor cabinet (as he was often wont to do post-examination) jolted in surprise at the sight of the waterlogged redhead. “Well I’ll be a son of a whore!” he said excitedly, pouring a second glass and passing the fine crystal into Crowley’s shivering hands. “Little Anthony! It’s been - what - a decade since last we saw you?” _

_ Crowley made a noise of acknowledgement and sipped tentatively at his drink. The alcohol settled warmly in his stomach, flushing his body with a pleasant heat. _

_ “Yup,” he said, popping the p and thinking back over memories of his youth spent on the Fell Manor grounds. “Back in town looking for work. Heard Lord Fell needed a gardener.” _

_ Azira returned, arms laden down with cloth and a scoff. “There’s no need for such strict formality between us, dear,” he said, passing the bundle to Crowley. “You were my dearest friend. Therefore, we don’t stand on ceremony. You can still call me Azira, or… or what you used to call me.” _

_ Crowley’s eyes darted around nervously, his shoulders tense as if he were ready to flee at a moment’s notice. _

_ “A-are you certain?” he asked, looking at the flames instead of at the Lord of Fell Manor standing directly across from him. He reluctantly began toweling off his own hair. “It’s been… it’s been some time, ang- Lord Fell. Longer-lived friendships have faded for less.” _

_ Crowley flinched when he felt a hand, soft from a lifelong lack of manual labor, come to rest on the inside of his wrist. _

_ “I missed you, Anthony,” was all Azira said, so soft as to be almost unheard over the crackling of the fireplace. _

_ Crowley stared in wonder at the hand on his wrist, then slowly twisted his own to twine their fingers together. He visibly relaxed as he met Azira’s cerulean eyes. _

_ “I missed you too, Azira,” He lifted their joined hands to his face and pressed a kiss to the other man’s knuckles. “My angel.” _

***~*~*~*~***

**Present Day**

The previous evening's rainstorm had only gotten worse, forcing Newt and Anathema to find a motel to stay at until they could properly begin their investigation the next night. Thankfully the weather had cleared up completely, and the full brightness of the moon shone down on the two paranormal investigators as they slogged up the hill towards the dilapidated Fell Manor.

Anathema led the way, her skirts hiked up to her thighs as Newt huffed and puffed behind her, struggling to carry all of their necessary equipment. The ground was still slick from yesterday’s rain, and both of them had to go slow to prevent slipping on the weed-choked cobblestones lining the path to the manor.

The night air was completely still, punctured only by the sounds of Newt’s wheezing and the squelching of booted feet in the muddy earth.

The interior of Fell Manor, however, was a hubbub of anxious spiritual activity.

“Ohdearohdearohdear,” Azira fretted, pacing back and forth in front of one of the second floor windows with a perfect view of the intruders marching up the path. “Please don’t come up here.”

His hopes were summarily dashed when the man carrying the strange-looking bags fell over, got back up, and continued plodding resolutely for the manor.

This was  _ terrible! _

Azira’s thoughts began to race. Were these strangers here to try and break into the house? Were they vandals? Or worse?

Were they  _ exorcists?! _

Azira couldn’t stifle a whimper. He’d been “exorcised” in the past, but rather than causing him to “move on”, it had only forced him into a sort of “hibernation” for a few days. Poor Crowley had been  _ terrified  _ when Azira didn’t show up at the window after the first one.

What he wouldn’t give to feel his husband’s comforting arms around his shoulders once more…

***~*~*~*~***

Hastur was the first to spot the people approaching the manor. He leapt up from where he’d been leaning against his own tombstone and shrieked, “Breathers! Everybody scatter!!”

The spirits erupted into panicked shouts and dove for cover, sinking back beneath the earth and into the relative safety of their graves. Crowley, however, ran to the cemetery fence which marked the borders of his own ghostly prison. His eyes frantically scanned the empty manor, searching for a sign of his angel. When Azira’s face appeared in the window, whiter than its normal ghostly pallor, Crowley began signing his clumsy messages.

_ “Angel. You have to hide. Breathers coming!” _

Though not a single past exorcism attempt had succeeded, Crowley still lived (unlived?) with the fear that, one day it  _ might  _ and then he and Azira would be separated again.

Permanently, this time.

Azira managed to give Crowley a smile filled with bravery that he didn’t quite feel.  _ “I will, darling. Don’t worry about-” _

His signs were cut off with a flinch as the sound of a lockpick being inserted into a tumbler broke the stillness of his manor. He gave Crowley one last look of reassurance, then vanished.

Crowley abandoned all pretexts of signing and threw himself at the invisible barrier keeping him trapped inside the cemetery. “C’mon, you bastard!  _ BREAK!”  _ he snarled. He continued flinging his noncorporeal body at the barrier as if to shatter it through sheer force of will. When the result was the same as it ever was, he threw back his head and howled in impotent fury.

***~*~*~*~***

Newt flinched at the scream that ripped itself across the night. His fingers fumbled on the lockpick, but continued working. He swallowed hard. “D-did you hear that?” he stuttered in a voice hardly above a whisper.

“It was probably just a fox,” Anathema said with a note of finality. “Was probably doing a mating call or something.”

Newt wasn’t sure if foxes even  _ had  _ mating calls, but he didn’t know enough about vulpine biology to contest Anathema’s statement. Regardless, all fox-related thoughts were pushed from his head as the final tumbler slid into place. He stood up and pressed his hand against the age-warped door of Fell Manor, pushing it open with an agonized shriek of rusted hinges. He bowed with a gallant flourish.

“After you, m’lady,” he said with a faux posh accent.

Anathema grimaced. “Say that again and I’ll… I don’t know. Make you eat dirt,” she warned, stepping past him and into the darkened house beyond.

***~*~*~*~***

Azira, invisible to mortal eyes, watched in a mixture of concern and confusion as these strangers began setting up equipment that he had never seen before. The man with glasses affixed a small metallic box atop a tripod and fiddled with something on its back.

The woman (also with glasses) had called it a “camera”, but surely she was mistaken! The box was so  _ compact!  _ Azira subconsciously crept forward a little to investigate, but jumped back when a tiny red light -  _ smaller than the flame of a match!  _ \- flickered to life atop the box. The woman cleared her throat, adjusted her hair, and then spoke.

“Goooooood evening, PD Believers! I’m your host, Anathema Device! As usual, we have good ol’ Newton Pulsifer manning the camera, and delivering his trademark witty banter!” she chirped, practically saccharine.

Newt stuck his hand into the camera frame and gave a weak wave.

“Hello…” he said, with an awkward smile that none of the viewers could actually see.

“Tonight’s investigation: the tragic story of Fell Manor’s last heir, Azira Fell!” Anathema said slowly, dragging out the mystery. If Azira had any breath, it would have stopped at the mention of his name. Could it be real? Had the truth of what happened to him finally come to light? He leaned forward eagerly, no longer caring for potential exorcisms as Anathema continued. “It’s a story of true love, murder, betrayal, and loss.”

“Aren’t they all?” Newt interrupted, rolling his eyes good-naturedly.

“That joke wasn’t funny on the ride here, and it isn’t funny now. Are you gonna let me finish the story or not?” Anathema snarked back. Her business partner gestured for her to continue, so she did.  _ “Anywho…  _ as the story goes, Azira Fell was the only child of Lord and Lady Fell. When they passed on, tragically early, their son inherited the manor  _ and  _ his family’s sizable fortune.”

Newt sighed sympathetically. “Poor bloke, orphaned so young,” he said.

Though Azira could no longer cry, he still wiped at his eyes at the tender kindness in the other man’s words. 

Anathema smiled gently. “Yeah, but he wasn’t alone for long. Several years after his parents’ death, Lord Fell met the love of his life,” she said with a saucy eyebrow waggle. Azira gasped, though it sounded only like the wind whistling through the eaves. “After a lengthy courtship spanning four years, no doubt fraught with passionate declarations and romantic soliloquies, Lord Fell finally consented to be married to Lord Gabriel Arch.”

Azira felt his world drop out beneath him.

No…

It  _ couldn’t  _ be…

“Aw. How sweet!” Newt cooed, always a sucker for a good love story.

_ Sweet?!  _ In  _ what  _ reality could that  _ monster  _ Gabriel be called “sweet”?!

“Alas, their love was not meant to be,” Anathema sighed, placing a hand over her heart. “The two hadn’t even been married a  _ day  _ before tragedy struck. The manor’s gardener, a man of ill-repute named Anthony Crowley,  _ murdered  _ Lord Fell in cold blood.”

_ “NO!”  _ Azira screamed, hoarse and angry, the power in his voice enough to send cracks skittering up the wooden walls of the manor. The camera wobbled on its tripod and tipped over. Newt squeaked and Anathema swore loudly as the cracks widened, sending shards of wood and plaster raining down on their heads and the once-cold hearth flared to life with blue-white flames.

_ “How dare they!”  _ Azira thought furiously.

How dare these strangers trespass in what had once been his beloved home, spreading lies and slander about the most important person in his life  _ and  _ undeath! Crowley had never  _ once  _ laid his hands on him in anger, much less for  _ murder! _

The very foundations of Fell Manor rumbled with the force of Azira’s wrath, sending a decrepit bookcase toppling over and nearly crushing Newt, who just barely managed to scurry out of the way in time. Anathema made a frightened noise somewhere between a moan and a scream as the flames from the fireplace scorched the moth-eaten rug beneath her close enough to feel the heat on her face.

Despite the quaking floor, Newt managed to stumble over to Anathema and grab her wrist. The two of them bolted out past the front door (which swung open obligingly), leaving their camera behind.

As quick as the outburst started, it ended, leaving Azira standing alone once more in his manor which looked a little worse for wear than it had not ten minutes prior. A bit of the second story floor crumbled and collapsed in a shower of splinters.

“Oh dear…”

***~*~*~*~***

Anathema and Newt’s terrified sprint had carried them over the threshold of Fell Manor, down the muddy path, and all the way back to the relative safety of their vehicle. They leaned against the car’s frame, gulping down greedy breaths.

“Did… did all that really just happen?” Newt whimpered, glancing back to the manor. Everything had once again gone silent.

Anathema’s heart hammered in her chest as she held up a lock of her own hair, singed at the tip from the near-miss with the fireplace. “Yeah. That really happened,” she replied in a voice barely audible over the faint rustling of the wind. She swallowed hard, the aftershocks of her adrenaline rush tingling all the way down to her fingers. “I don’t think a simple EMF or temperature reading is gonna cut it for  _ this  _ case.”

She wordlessly held up her hand and Newt tossed her the car keys. She walked around to the vehicle’s boot and unlocked it. The cramped interior was lined with tacky upholstery speckled with crumbs and miscellaneous stains that had been there since time immemorial. Apart from a few empty wrappers and assorted bits and bobs, the boot was empty save for a single, cracked leather case that looked like it may have once belonged to Professor Van Helsing. Anathema snatched it up and slammed the boot. When Newt spotted the case, his eyes went wide behind his glasses. “You think that’ll work here?” he asked, skin crawling at the memory of the scant few times he and Anathema had been forced to use the contents of it. “We’ve  _ never  _ had a case this active this soon.”

“Oh, yeah. It’ll  _ definitely  _ work,” his friend replied, running a hand over the dark brown leather. “It’s time to break out the big guns. We’re either dealing with a powerful demon or a malevolent spirit, and we  _ need  _ to take precautions.”

“I think it’s the latter,” Newt said with a look back to the manor. “I mean… did you  _ feel  _ how angry the presence became when you mentioned that Crowley guy? It must be Lord Fell haunting the house.” 

Anathema hefted the suitcase. “Yeah. I think I’d be pretty pissed too if someone went around talking about  _ my  _ murderer all willy-nilly,” she said. “But don’t worry. We’ll have Fell put to proper rest in  _ no time.” _


	3. Open Doors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Witches, ghosts, and demons— oh my!

_It was raining when Crowley first met his husband._

_It started out as a drizzle, a light spray under the greying skies as seven-year-old Crowley trotted behind his father as the gardener weeded the flower beds. He hadn’t quite yet understood why the family of the big house wanted their plants in a particular row or why they had so many of them to begin with, but the shrubs and blooms were pretty and his Papa was more than happy to tend to them._

_A few hours prior, his Papa squinted up at the skies and let out an “Oh? Looks like a storm’s brewing.”_

_Little Anthony Crowley looked up and saw nothing but endless blues and said, “Bollocks.” His Papa only barked out a laugh and warned him that he better not use such language in front of his Mama._

_“Bollocks indeed, eh son?” his Papa snickered as the drizzle surged to a downpour above them. Crowley pouted, hating being proven wrong as children oft did._

_From some distance behind them, a door slammed open and a shrill cry from house maid followed as a blond blur sprinted across the sopping lawn._

A boy? _little Crowley thought as he watched the taller child, toting some blankets and umbrellas that threatened to slip from his grasp as he panted from his short chase. The boy skidded to halt before him and his Papa, thrusting the bundle into his Papa’s expectant arms. The boy then unhooked an umbrella that hung from his hand and offered it to Crowley as thunder rolled across the sky._

_“No—need to thank me!” the boy wheezed out with a tired, sweet smile and endless blue eyes._

_Crowley’s heart thudded violently behind the cage of his ribs as he accepted the umbrella from his hands._

“Young Master!”

_The young boy squeaked before sprinting off again, nearly slipping on the wet grass as he did so._

“You’ll catch death if you don’t come back here **this** instant!”

_“I’m coming, Nanny!”_

_Crowley continued to stare as the boy guiltily slunk back to the house where a stern lady in black waited for him by the open door. Crowley himself hadn’t even noticed it raining cats and dogs until his father opened an umbrella over them both. As it were, he still clutched his own given by the boy against his pounding chest._

_“_ That _,” his Papa said with a bemused smile. “Is Little Master Azira—Master Fell’s boy. And_ this _,” he said, gesturing to the little gift keeping them dry. “Would be the third umbrella he’s given me.”_

_Crowley only nodded, eyes fixated on the spot by the house where the boy last stood. “Papa?”_

_“Yes, son?”_

_“I’m gonna marry him.”_

_His Papa only chuckled, draping a mostly-dry blanket from the bundle of Azira’s blessings over his son’s shoulders. “Bollocks!”_

***~*~*~*~***

**Present Day**

_No—no!_

“Fuck—they’re coming back—” Crowley gave one last a frustrated roar at the _damned_ barrier and swiveled around. “Hastur! Ligur!” he barked out.

“Would ya keep it down, Crowley?” Hastur hissed from behind the cover of his grave. “For once, we’d rather _not_ be caught makin’ a ruckus!”

“But what I need right _now_ is a ruckus!” Crowley insisted.

Ligur turned away with a scowl, sinking down beneath the dirt and Hastur motioned to do much the same.

“No, no—listen, I got a bad feeling about these ones,” he pleaded—as much as he loathed to do so. But he’d do anything to keep Azira safe. “I just need a distraction, okay? They _can’t_ make you cross over. You know this.” Crowley stifled a groan as twin pairs of glowering, haunting eyes peered at him from behind the graves. “Come on, what do you two _usually_ do to get their attention?”

“You’re mad if you think we’re risking an exorcism,” Ligur snarled.

Eric frowned, intrigued more than concerned as he peered over from his own resting place. “What…what happens during an exorcism?”

Hastur growled. “I don’t _know_ and I don’t _care_ to find out—”

“Yes, but Azira _does._ They’re going to exorcise the house again,” Crowley implored. He let out a shuddering breath. “They’re going to _hurt_ him.”

There was hesitation. Ever so slightly. The pair looked to one another uneasily. “Yer lover boy always comes out fine,” Hastur huffed out.

Crowley glared, reaching his anger point. “You don’t _know_ that,” he spat. 

The two ghouls stared one another down; Hastur was stubborn—as old ghouls oft were— but compared to Crowley and his mad devotion towards the spirit across the way? There was no contest. And Hastur’s resolve was already wavering.

Ligur gave a long-suffering groan, deciding to hasten the process along. They’d never hear the end of it if his lover were exorcised again. They’d take a few scares themselves over the annoyance of dealing with Crowley’s agony.

He glowered at Crowley, looking like he would sorely regret this decision in the end, but nevertheless offered: “…Well, we could always set one of the graves on fire.”

Hastur turned to him, expression soft as he looked to his companion. “We hadn’t done that in decades.”

(Both thoroughly ignored the way Crowley’s face scrunched up in disgust as the two shared a less-than-secretive intimate glance.)

“Now’s as good a time as any,” Ligur shrugged, pretending to ignore the excited gleam in the arsonist’s eyes. “We even have a fresh grave.”

The three looked over to Eric, who by now, was looking rightfully concerned.

***~*~*~*~***

Newt was tasked with setting up their equipment again as Anathema continued on with her investigation around the house, tracking hotspots and coldspots with the EMF. They decided to stop directly engaging the audience for now; they could always add commentary post-production to prevent angering the spirit further.

Newt couldn’t help but shiver at the thought of instigating some kind of attack by returning to the house that they were _clearly_ not welcome in. But he had to admit—Anathema was right.

_This_ was the strongest activity they’d ever encountered. It was too good an opportunity to pass up.

With the motion-detection laser grid in place and the cameras set up in various points of the house, he got about to digging through the trunk with Anathema’s vague instructions in mind of _We’ll need everything and everything._ Rifling through the various wires, candles, jars of—who knows what really—PIPD’s second-in-command nearly let out a ghastly groan of his own. There, lying in the trunk, was the Obelisk.*

Newt _hated_ the Obelisk.

He knew Anathema hated it as well. But above that, he knew better than to be dismayed when he saw the wretched thing nestled neatly in the bottom.

It was loud, it was obnoxious, and it lent more to Newt’s ever-increasing anxieties than anything else.

The object whipped rapidly between hundreds of radio stations to allow the spirits to take reign of the readings and give them some sort of answer when asked a question, often stopping to a split second of radio voices to speak on their behalf.

He’d once asked a rather sullen spirit of her fate during a haunt and in-between the lapses of mariachi music and BBC he could catch, there would be clear pauses on responses like _“died,” “stranger,”_ and _“knife.”_

He’d shut off the Obelisk after that. Threw it at the back of his trunk and promptly prayed that Anathema would forget the entire ordeal as she performed her blessings on the house to help that poor spirit move on from such a violent past. 

In short, the Obelisk was obnoxious and frighteningly _effective_. And Newt hated it.

“Spirit, are you here with us?” Anathema called from another room, her camera and microphone strapped to her chest. She circled back to where Newt sat, her brows furrowed in concentration. “Give us a sign if you wish to communicate.”

Anathema gave it a few moments of silence before sighing.

“I know you’re here, _whatever_ you are!” Her eyes scanned the still room where even the shadows laid dormant. Anathema was undeterred; she was not so easily fooled. “I can feel your presence within the very bones of his house—and I _will_ find you,” she vowed. 

***~*~*~*~***

Azira tried his damnest to remain quiet. He scattered amongst the dark, laying still within the walls, feeling like prey in his own domain.

But he couldn’t help it. Azira stifled his whimpers, fear roiling in his core at the energy the woman emitted. He’d felt similar prowess in others—the old priest that came to bless the house and felt his sorrows, the little boy who appeared here with his dog and left him small offerings, the surveyor who turned right around and out of the house for good after setting foot through the front door.

But this one…

_This one was different._

This one had _intent_ and from the way it made Azira want to make himself small and disappear, it was _far_ from friendly.

He prayed to a silent God that they would just— _leave!_

***~*~*~*~***

“Newt.” He startled as Anathema turned to him with a grave look upon her face. “Turn on the Obelisk.”

“I was afraid you’d say that,” he groaned as he flicked it on.

Newt winced as it blared to life with the bright glow, a sudden buzzing of static as radio frequencies collided with one another and noise flooded the room in its wake. As he did so, Anathema burned something potent from a vial as she murmured an incantation under her breath.

“W-who are we speaking with?” Newt asked. “Who is here with us?”

He dared not ask the question that was in both their minds: **_What_** _is here with us?_

***~*~*~*~***

Azira shrieked at the sudden barrage of noise; it seemed to invade every crevice of the manor. This sudden lapse brought him out of hiding in the dark and into the chaos that befell his home.

Noise blared, lights flickered, all too aggressive, all too loud and intrusive. The smell of something foul burning filled his senses, making him dizzy if he had a head, making him nauseas if he had a stomach.

It was too much—it was _all_ too much— _!_

***~*~*~*~***

_"WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?"_ Eric cried out, nearly jumping into the pit had Crowley not held him by the scruff of the neck. 

Hastur snorted as smoke and the inklings of embers began to sprout and spread through even the wooden grave marker. "Quit yer yackin! Yer family still comes to visit anyways. They can fix ya up."

Eric shook his head, face contorting to an uneasy mix of concern and despair. "They'll be convinced I was dragged to hell…"

Ligur snickered as the flames erupted and burned with inferno intensity against the dark of night. "Not that far from it, aren't we?"

***~*~*~*~***

Anathema jumped as a book flew across the room. Then another. Then an entire bookcase came collapsing down not a meter from her. Her breaths came in short staccatos as the entire house seemed to groan to life, objects falling from their perches and entire shelves upended by whatever malicious force had pervaded this house.

Newt knocked against the laser grid in fright, causing a disruption of the straight lines before the system failed all together. He dared to peek at the monitor, finding the cameras had erupted into static and soon went dark, one by one.

The wood creaked, glass cracked, and the steady fire in the hearth died with a chilling breath. Somewhere in the dark, Newt whimpered.

There was a frantic energy that fizzled and sparked in the air, of something ancient and powerful, tortured and enraged. The Obelisk was the last one to stand and it burned in Newt’s hands as doors slammed and windows shuddered. The droning echo grew louder and distorted as the device blared out:

_Stop, stop, stop, stopStOp **StOpSToPstOPs̷̨̢̡̛̭̯̯̰̹̬̘͍̘̥͌̀͝t̴̨̢̬͔̥̥͙̜͍̀͛̂̐̍̈̌̔͒̑͐̕͝ͅỡ̴̡̢͈̹̱͎͇̺̞͈̟̺̹͌͂̒͌̊̓͋̋̐ṗ̵̤̼̪̪̲̯̪̺̜̱̥̙̬͚̰̍̆̇̓̿͘͠ş̵̹̻͓̺͖̲͑͊̇̌̇̅̽̓̋͆͐̊̿͘ţ̸̡̥̘̏̈́̒̊͂̾̎̑̊̕͘ͅő̶̧̦̜̫̥p̸̛̗͓̣̦͖̠̫͈̞͕͈̓̎̽͛̏̓̅̋̆̆͋̇̕ş̶̢̲̥̲̬͔̤͖͉͚̣͖͌̂̾̒̎͝ţ̴̘̟̰͕͖̩̜̝̂͒̃͜ͅö̴̡̨͍̺̟͈̮̟́̒p̵̲͖̺̬̖̣̝̙͉̰̦͑̈́̿̓̊͝ͅs̶̨̧͕̲̥̥̒̉͐̈́̈́͛̽̄̍͘t̸̡͊̆̎͘̕o̸̡͇̭̣̩̣̝̫͚̽̏̌͘p̷̥̬͚̣͉̯̰̘͙̘̥̜̌̓̍̍̏͑̄̓͊̿͐̌͊͠ͅs̸̡͙̓͒ţ̵̧̪̬̞̪̲̬͔̯̲͆̉͆̋̽͋̅̾͗͊̅̆̕o̸̢̧̨̨̧̹͎͍̬͚̗̖̮͈͊̒̑̽p̷͖͊͑͊͋̅̈́͑̚̕͘ͅs̴̨̹̼̣͎̳̲̙̞̈͑͗͗̏͘͠ẗ̴̗́̈́̿̐̾ͅo̶͖̥̥̫̜̱͔̍̀̉́͂̈́̍͒̀̊̌͑͠͝p̶̡̺͉̭͇͔͉̯͌̋̊̋͝**_

Newt fumbled to switch the Obelisk off, his heart banging erratically against the walls of his chest.

“A demon,” Anathema gasped, eyes entranced by the havoc that had fallen around them. The entire house grew alarmingly cold, like a wet autumn night. She whispered, something like dread and something like awful, awful anticipation in her voice as she said: “Newt…we’ve got ourselves a _demon_.”

Newt opened his mouth to object—to _scream_ —

A flicker in the darkness outside caught both their attention. Anathema’s hands trembled as she held the burning bushel of herbs, eyes wide as both she and Newt approached the windows facing the adjacent cemetery.

_Fire._

It consumed one of the graves, desecrating the body within. A mockery of a burial. A wicked ritual and a dark sacrifice.

“Get the Book,” Anathema whispered. Newt made a startled noise but upon the somber glint in Anathema’s eyes, he assented. He felt the desperate energy in the room, the Obelisk still droning in that same command over and over again, and Newt felt his heart sink straight to his stomach.

He hefted the book out of the trunk as Anathema wrested sprigs of fragrant herbs and deadly flowers together, an invocation for protection, an offering for strength. Newt handed her the large tome, age-worn and heavy with occult practices and rites. Anathema opened the book and it fell to the exact page she needed, as it had done every single time.

With that, the witch began her incantation.

***~*~*~*~***

Azira howled, feeling himself starting to slip away. He felt as though a weight shackled him to the very foundation of the house, keeping him trapped and crushed by an insurmountable force. Darkness clouded his vision as his soul grew weary and weak.

An icy grip tightened around his core, so similar to the chill his own death centuries ago, stripping away his fears, anxieties, and his will to fight. All he was left with was a resounding hollowness, an echo-chamber of hundreds and hundreds of years of nothing but desolation and despair.

Before he could succumb to the emptiness, to an unknown purgatory of dreamless sleep for an unknown number of years, he made one last-ditch effort.

If they wanted to communicate—

Then so be it.

***~*~*~*~***

The Obelisk sprung to life, startling Anathema and causing Newt to bump into her. The bushel of herbs fell from her hand and the burning fringes grew frosty from the despair in the room before it even hit the floor.

The static was incessant but quieter and weak. Between dissected pop songs and mutilated news broadcasts, the words _“Don’t,” “Want,” “Sleep,” “Don’t,” “Leave,” “Crow,” “Lee,” “A-lone”_ flashed through the screen. 

Anathema tentatively closed her Book. She felt whatever presence was there severely weakened by the exorcism—but rather than fight back, growing outraged and frenzied as so many dark beings did, it instead _pleaded_.

It pleaded not to sleep. It pleaded not leave _Crowley_ alone.

“This little mystery keeps getting stranger and stranger,” she mused. “Be on your guard Newt. We still don’t know who—or _what—_ we’re dealing with.”

“Why did you stop the exorcism?” Newt asked.

Anathema was hard-pressed to find the answer herself. In the end she settled for: “It’s not acting like a demon.” 

Newt, understandably, looked to her with concern and with considerable doubt of her own sanity. “An—did you _see_ that burning grave—”

“I know, I know, but…” She gestured around them. “Look. It’s quiet now.” But more than that, Anathema could _feel_ that presence on the verge of slipping away—not being casted out, but subdued into submission. It made the house feel more oppressed than ever. “It feels…sad.”

“It could be lying.” Newt bit his lip worriedly, eyes scanning the room, all-too-wary of the now-empty hearth. “That’s what they’re good at, you know.”

“I _know_ that. But…” She couldn’t dismiss Newt’s warnings; it would be foolish to. He was right—the signs pointed to malevolent entity that plagued this house and these grounds for centuries now. A force that was powerful—powerful enough to even influence the world beyond its walls. It wouldn’t just be idiotic to dismiss the evidence—it would be _suicidal_ to.

But _something_ tugged at her instincts. An atom-tiny voice that equal parts promised and equal parts warned of something much deeper than the lore of newspaper tragedies from a small-town fable.

Something crooned to her that there was something she could _unearth_ and _save_.

“I want to open communication,” Anathema said.

“We _tried—_ ”

“Yes, but we forced it on _our_ terms.” The witch strode over to the trunk, rummaging through the articles and setting out candles and salt. If this entity turned out to be less-than-friendly— then at the very least, she wanted to offer herself and Newt some protection against it. “I want to hear it from…whoever this is. Whoever this is that doesn’t want to leave _Crowley_ alone.”

Panic surged through Newt’s veins as her meaning sunk in. “No—no, we’ll be opening doors to—”

“The door’s already open,” Anathema stated, tucking the Book away and in its place retrieved an intricately engraved wooden board and a planchet from the trunk’s depths. All color drained from Newt’s face as she set the board down to the floor and gestured for him to take the seat opposite. “I think they’re willing to talk now.”

***~*~*~*~***

If Azira had lungs, he would have breathed a sigh of relief. Still—he couldn’t help the tentative hope that rose in his chest.

That—rather ghastly object—could be used to _hear_ him.

Perhaps…perhaps this was the answer he was looking for all along. Perhaps they could be the key to solving this age-long predicament. Perhaps he was trapped here so people would know the truth—the truth that Crowley _was_ his husband, and not—ugh, _Gabriel_ —and that Crowley would have never hurt him. Perhaps his purpose here was to give justice to his lover and prove him innocent of the crimes history had blamed him for.

And most importantly—if he dared to even _dream,_ perhaps…

_“Perhaps they could bring me to Crowley…”_ he thought with heartbreaking hope.

He peered from the doorway to the pair, watching them curiously set up what appeared to be some kind of ritual. He saw cautiously hovered over and caught a glimpse of a board with letters strewn about on them and hoped this was an alternative to that blasted device. Azira was impressed with their preparations and even more so, their variety of little gadgets.

_“Yes, yes—this could work!”_ he giggled to himself.

But if Azira had lungs, he would have sighed as he watched the mousy young man light his sleeve on fire while preparing the séance.

_"Then again, perhaps not."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * - The “Obelisk” is a spirit box; the name that was chosen for it in this fic is very similar to a certain brand of spirit boxes, but Obelisk just sounded cooler. 
> 
> Also, for anyone practicing wicca, I wasn’t able to find sources or examples of exorcism in the practice. This would make sense given my (albeit scarce) knowledge of the belief that mainly focuses on respecting the earth and spirits for power and protection. Exorcisms, on the other hand, are primarily performed by the Roman Catholic Church; they are not so much “casting out” bad spirits or demons, but rather invoking an “oath” from a higher power to force them to leave against their will. So, I do apologize for this Frankenstein’d hodgepodge of rites and culture. Anathema may be a witch, but here, the rites are based off of Catholicism because that was honestly the best I could do.
> 
> If anyone can direct me to (free) resources on the matter, I’d be more than happy to read through them!


End file.
